


Eight American Nights

by pdhudson



Category: Excalibur (Comic)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Food, Gen, Hanukkah, Homesickness, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:09:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21904990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdhudson/pseuds/pdhudson
Summary: Kitty's new to life in Britain and missing America — especially the food. After a particularly disastrous breakfast, her new teammates in Excalibur decide to give her a taste of home for Hanukkah.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21
Collections: 2019 Xplain Yuletide X-Men Fanwork Xchange





	Eight American Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amuk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amuk/gifts).



Okay, so maybe I was being kind of a brat. In my defense, the X-Men were all dead (except for me and Kurt, of course), my parents were in the federal witness protection program (looooong story), my powers had gone all wonky so I was phased all the time (unless I concentrated really hard), I was just getting over the worst cold of my life, the guy I liked barely noticed my existence, and Hanukkah was coming up — the first Hanukkah I’d ever spent apart from my family. On a rainy island, half a world away from everything I knew. In a weirdo lighthouse with a bunch of goyim.

So maybe you can understand why I wigged out when, on top of all that, I floated upstairs for breakfast and Brian threw down a plate of beans on toast in front of me.

Beans. On. _Toast._

The bean juice oozed down the side, glistening in the fluorescent lighting, soggying the toast and turning my stomach. I didn’t know if Brian expected me to eat it with my hands (yuck) or with a knife and fork ( _why?_ ). But deep down I knew, in that moment, that I was not going to eat that. And I did not have the emotional fortitude to be nice about it.

“Something wrong, Kitty?” Rachel asked. She’d gone the knife-and-fork route and was eating without complaint. Probably since she’d spent so much of her life in the future starving, she’d eat pretty much anything. Except British beef. From the moment we formed Excalibur, she was very insistent that she wouldn’t let any of us eat any British beef for at least a decade (“a _decade_ , she says!” Brian huffed) because of something called “mad cow disease” that she swore would become a major epidemic any year now (“any _year_ , she says!”), though she didn’t remember precisely when.

Brian, needless to say, did not take kindly to this. There had already, in the few months we’d been a team, been a couple big spats about it. Brian would grumble about not being allowed to eat beef, and Rachel would suggest importing beef from New Zealand or Japan, since he had so much money, and Brian would deny being as loaded as Rachel thought he was, and then someone — Rachel or Kurt — would mutter something about the whiskey budget, which would lead to Brian storming off with Rachel shouting after him that he’d thank her in twenty years when his brain wasn’t all full of holes.

So Brian probably thought this vegetarian breakfast would go over pretty well, or at least without a shouting match. And he was wrong, for two simple reasons: I was grouchy and British food is revolting.

“Who puts beans on _toast_ _?_ ” I demanded.

“Everyone in the British Isles,” Brian said, sitting down to eat.

“For the love of God, _why_ _?_ ”

“It’s good!” Meggan said. “Give it a try!”

I curled my lip, looking at the slimy, possibly-sentient mass of lumpy brown sludge on my plate. “I am not eating that.”

Brian’s face reddened. “Well then, leave it. If you’re too good for a classic British dish, you can make your _own_ blasted breakfast!”

“Maybe I would,” I said, my voice rising, “if I could find any decent cereal here! Why is British food so _weird_? Why can’t I find any grape jelly? Or peanut butter? _Real_ peanut butter, I mean — not what that shop in Penzance calls ‘peanut butter,’ which is _so. not. peanut butter._ Ugh!” I pushed my plate to the side and threw my head into my hands. “I miss peanut butter and jelly sandwiches so much. And root beer! And pancakes — big, fluffy _American_ pancakes! And nova lox on an everything bagel! And pastrami on rye with a dill pickle on the side — seriously, is there a single Jewish deli anywhere on this whole island? You tossed out the Jews in the Middle Ages and now you’re cursed with a millennium of terrible food? Is that it?”

Brian, still red-faced, was grouchily devouring his toast as if to personally atone for my disrespect to the Queen. Rachel had gone white as a sheet, like all her blood had drained right into Brian’s face. Kurt and Meggan just looked uncomfortable. And now I was probably blushing because, yeah, Brian made this food and had opened up his lighthouse to me and here I was, being the ultimate ugly American.

But come on. Beans. On _toast_. Ew.

“Excuse me,” Rachel said quietly, and left the table, half her breakfast uneaten.

Brian threw down his napkin. “You people are impossible. Well, if you’ll be like that, I won’t cook anymore. Take me off the rotation — Kitty can take care of my meal slots, and she’ll hear from me if it’s not up to my standards!” He dumped his plate in the sink and stomped downstairs to take out his aggression on the exercise equipment.

Meggan flew off after him. “Oh Brian, darling, don’t be like that…”

So that left me and Kurt at the table, all alone, staring at each other awkwardly.

“So…” Kurt cleared his throat. “What are your thoughts on cheese blintzes?”

* * *

The first night of Hanukkah, it was Meggan’s turn to cook dinner, but I insisted on taking over. I wasn’t about to go without latkes on the first night of Hanukkah for the first time ever just because I was away from home. Some things are sacred.

Meggan offered to help, though, since there’d be a ton of potatoes and onions to chop.

“I don’t know that we’ll be able to match your mum’s recipe, exactly,” she said as she peeled a potato for me to grate, “but I’m sure it’ll be just lovely all the same!”

I laughed. “My mom’s recipe is, ‘Open box of Manischewitz latke mix, add water.’ If anything, it’ll probably be better — if I can get this darn recipe right.”

“That’s the spirit!”

I put down the cheese grater and stretched my stiff, aching fingers. The grating was hard all by itself, but staying solid for so long took concentration. “Hang on, I’m going to get something to drink.”

I opened the fridge and did a double-take. That six-pack had to be beer, some English brand I’d never seen before. But no, I recognized that label: Dr. Brown’s. I picked a can up and turned it over in my hand, awestruck. Real root beer.

“Meggan?” I called. “Where’d you get root beer from?”

“What?” she called back.

I came over, tapping the can. “Did you pick it up in London or something?”

Meggan shook her head. She was trying to look clueless, but she’d never been good at lying. The sides of her mouth quivered, trying to suppress a smile. “Maybe the Hanukkah Fairy brought it for you.”

I gave her a side-eye. “Thanks, Meggan,” I said.

“Thank the Hanukkah Fairy; I had nothing to do with it,” she said unconvincingly.

That night felt almost like old times. I served the latkes with applesauce and did not inform my teammates that sour cream was a possibility, thereby ending a classic Hanukkah argument before it could begin. We lit the menorah and played dreidel and shared the miraculous root beer. I explained the holiday as best I could — including the complete lack of anything like a Hanukkah Fairy — and for one evening, we kept our usual bickering to a minimum.

“I’m sorry about the other morning,” I said to Brian. “I was a real jerk.”

He waved me off. “Can’t be easy, being so far from home during the holidays. Consider it forgotten.”

And I figured that was the end of it. I’d keep lighting the menorah for the next seven nights, but otherwise my teammates would forget about it in our usual churn of superheroic drama.

Turns out, not so much.

* * *

The next night was Rachel’s night to cook, which was generally pretty okay because she had no idea how to cook so she just ordered takeout (or “takeaway,” as they said over here). I was expecting pizza or fish and chips. Instead I phased into the kitchen to see the table covered in bagels — real crispy-edged everything bagels, not the mushy flavorless things that one place in London called bagels — with bits of smoked salmon and red onion and cream cheese poking out the sides, capers dotting the crumpled paper they’d come wrapped in.

I stared at Rachel in astonishment. “How?”

She had a smug grin on her face. “Phoenix Force, baby! Dig in!”

“You used the Phoenix Force to fly all the way to New York to get … bagels? For me?”

Rachel took a big bite out of her bagel. _Hey, you’re not the only one who misses New York food,_ she said telepathically as she chewed. _And anyway, it’s a special occasion. Happy Hanukkah, kiddo._

I bit into the bagel and almost cried. It wasn’t the freshest, and it was a little too warm, and it was probably a customs violation, but I couldn’t remember enjoying a bagel more.

* * *

On the third night of Hanukkah, ostensibly my turn to cook since Brian had dumped his night on me, Rachel showed me where she and Kurt had hidden the pastrami, rye bread, and pickles. On the fourth night of Hanukkah, my teammates gave to me: white bread, peanut butter, and jelly. Those were the easiest dinners ever. On the fifth night, Kurt made fluffy American-style pancakes from a boxed mix, and Brian grumbled at the sheer amount of sugar in the American diet. Of course he was right.

On the sixth night, I floated up into a kitchen fragrant with unfamiliar spices. Covering the table were Chinese-style paper boxes of rice and aluminum containers of colorful, chunky goops. Not only wasn’t this something I remembered and missed from home, it wasn’t anything I’d ever seen before.

Meggan directed me to a yellowish goop with vegetables in it. “Navratan korma!” she declared proudly. “Your favorite.”

I blinked at her, and then at my other teammates as they trickled in. “Thank you,” I said weakly, not wanting to seem ungracious.

Rachel noticed my confusion. “When you were listing all the foods you missed about America last week, I…” Her face got that distant look it gets when she’s remembering the future. “We used to talk a lot, in the camp, about the foods we missed, the foods we’d eat again when we got out, somehow. We were hungry all the time. The foods you listed at breakfast that day were... it was the exact same list Aunt Kate had. Just about, except for navratan korma, which I guess you haven’t tried yet.” She smiled wryly. “Ironically, in this time, you can get it _way_ more easily here than in America.”

“Oh, Rachel…” I hugged her. She blushed. “Did you do all of this yourself?”

“I picked up the curries!” Meggan said, slightly defensively.

“And I asked a human friend in New York to mail in the root beer,” Kurt said, cheerfully spooning some bright red goop onto his plate. 

“Kurt and I got to talking after that breakfast. We just thought…” Rachel chewed her lip. “You should have the food you love while you can. We all should.”

“You should too, you know,” I said. “What do _you_ miss from home?”

Rachel smiled sheepishly. “I miss cheeseburgers _so bad_.”

I burst out laughing. “You’re the one who refuses to eat them!”

“I swear to God, mad cow disease is gonna be a thing!”

“Okay, Rachel.”

The yellow goop, which I’d already forgotten the name of, was really yummy — sweet and creamy, with just enough vegetables to let me convince myself that it was good for me. Actually, all the goops were good — we all tried a bit of each other’s — although the reddest red goop was way spicier than I was used to. But my goop was definitely the best. I totally believed that this would someday be one of my favorite meals. And I’d eaten it for the first time right here in England, home of beans on toast.

“So what’s on the menu for tomorrow night?” I asked as we cleaned up. “You have to tell me, since officially I’m cooking tomorrow.”

“Actually…” Brian cleared his throat. “I was a bit too tough on you before, and I may have let my anger get the best of me. I’ll be taking my turn back. So it’ll just have to be a surprise.” He winked at me then, and I could’ve hugged the big lug.

And Brian did not disappoint. On the seventh night of Hanukkah, he filled the lighthouse with the all-American smell of hamburgers and french fries (though he insisted on calling them chips).

“It’s from New Zealand,” he instantly reassured Rachel when the scent drew her up from the workout room. She stared at the burgers, slowly pulling her headphones down. Dinner as a whole wasn’t entirely ready, but Brian spatula’d up one burger frying in the pan with some cheese just starting to melt on top of it, just for Rachel. She gobbled it down right there in the kitchen entrance, sweaty in her workout gear, Bon Jovi leaking out from the headphones around her neck.

“You, uh… you okay there, Rachel?” I asked.

“I just…” she began, her eyes shining, “I just love burgers so much, you guys.” 

Brian made another cheeseburger and slid it across the counter to me, before looking suddenly horrified. “I — oh, that’s not kosher, is it? So sorry, I'll make another,” he stammered, reaching to take it back.

I took my burger in one hand and waved him off with the other. “I’m Reform, it’s fine.” 

Each of us on the team devoured our burgers as we wandered in, mostly standing up and walking around, leaning against the counter and grabbing greasy, too-hot fries from a paper towel-lined plate.

“So,” I said to Rachel and Kurt, “Tomorrow’s the last night of Hanukkah. And it’s also my night — for real this time. So you have to tell me: what's next?”

Kurt winced. “We… had some trouble getting all eight nights prepared. Especially after that Murderworld nonsense. There’s more peanut butter and jelly, and pancake mix too. But… we’ve nothing new. Sorry, _katchzen_.”

I looked across the kitchen to where Brian was doing dishes. His back was to the rest of us, and he probably couldn’t hear us well over the running water.

“Actually…” I said quietly, “if one of you could give me a ride to the grocery store, I think I’ve got an idea.”

* * *

This year, the last day of Hanukkah happened to fall on a Sunday. And Brits have this thing called a Sunday roast. It’s a huge dinner with some kind of roast meat, roasted potatoes, obligatory vegetable matter, puddings, sausages, and on and on. They are very, _very_ into this Sunday roast. And for all I complain about British food, I can see why. It’s like Thanksgiving, but every week.

So for the last night of Hanukkah, I decided to try my hand at it. It was my way of saying thanks to the team for making me feel at home, and showing my appreciation for the country that had welcomed me in.

Thankfully, Kurt and Meggan recognized what I was getting myself into and volunteered to help. Between the three of us, we managed to throw together a roasted chicken, some potatoes, sausages wrapped in bacon (which they call “pigs in blankets” even though bacon makes for an awfully thin blanket), “cauliflower cheese” (which is _not_ a vegan cheese made of cauliflower, as I had assumed, but cauliflower in cheese sauce), and fried broccoli. I insisted on frying _something_. It was still Hanukkah, after all. We burned neither the chicken nor the house down. And when Brian sank into his chair and looked at the feast laid out on the table, tears glistened in his eyes.

In the living room, all nine candles danced in the menorah, and the kitchen was warm with friendship and roast everything. And I thought, you know what? I could live here, with these people, protecting the British Isles. We could make this work.

But I’m still not eating beans on toast.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta reader/husband, Jason, who tried valiantly and fruitlessly to make me edit this down to the max allowable wordcount. But like, my story for last year's exchange was a little short, so it evens out, right? Right?? It totally evens out.
> 
> Also, my apologies to British people. I know you're going through some stuff right now, and I don't mean to mock you or your food. I kid because I love! Also, Kitty's opinions are not necessarily my own (although latkes are to be eaten with applesauce and only applesauce, and yes I will die on this hill).


End file.
